love is like the wild rose-briar.
Friendship like a holly tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?

the wild rose-briar is sweet in spring
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
and deck thee with the holly’s sheen;
That when December blights thy brow
He Still may leave thy garland green.